


Until Nothing But Ash Remains

by StardustCoeur (SolivagantSleepyhead)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Blood, Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, just two emotionally fucked russians having bad and painful sex tbh, sorry - Freeform, sorry again!, well it's 5 years in the future so he's just sort of older
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolivagantSleepyhead/pseuds/StardustCoeur
Summary: Yuri doesn’t need his pity. An apology could never make up for years of insecurity, of wondering what about him was so fundamentally unlovable. He needs the old Victor, his Victor, before the livid tangle of visceral passion in the core of his being was extinguished by the love he trusted to last forever.He needs to stoke the flames if he wants to burn.“You deserve everything you got, Vitya.” Yuri bites, and even he’s startled by how much he means it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> before we get into it, i'd like to preemptively apologize for this mess. i'm going through. some things. and i need to just vent it out. sorry y'all for doing this to them, i'll have a better explanation for intents at the end so you know this isn't just me mindlessly picking a villain for more Yuri Angst aa

It’s a funny thing, really, how social media allows us to keep tabs on our friends and loved ones more often than ever before. We know what they’re doing, eating, and who they’re with, without even having to exchange a single word with them. We’re exposed to each other’s lives every second of every day, but the power of selective posting is stronger than you’d think. When everyone puts forth the best of their life and only what they _want_ to be seen, who’s to say what’s happening on the other side of a screen? What’s happening an hour, or even a _second_ after a photo is taken?

 

You don’t know, you can only speculate--a fact that is only obvious when it’s already too late.

* * *

Following Yuuri’s retirement at nearly thirty years old, he and Victor had returned to Hasetsu to settle down, permanently. They’d been married for several years by that point, but, as the couple had mentioned in the articles following the announcement, the constant cycle of competitions had meant that they hadn’t _really_ gotten a chance to experience the newlywed lifestyle, and ‘ _what better place to start then the very town where they fell in love_ ’?

It was a perfect sentiment, and almost sickeningly saccharine to see in action in their snapchat stories and Instagram posts.

But, for Yuri, Victor’s abandonment hadn’t stung nearly as much as it had the first time. He wasn’t the lonely little teenager he used to be; he was twenty now, and, quite honestly, he’d been expecting something like this since the beginning of the two idiots’ whirlwind romance. Yuuri had never gotten used to living in Russia, and his homesickness only seemed to worsen with every empty assurance Victor gave him that he’d learn to love it there. After all, Yuuri wasn’t _like_ Victor and himself. You could only be homesick if you _had_ a home and a family _to_ miss. Of course, Victor--naive and self-centered as ever--had never understood that. For someone who’d grown used to living out of a suitcase and skipping town at the drop of a dime, how could you even begin to explain what it meant to _not belong_?

Well, the answer was that you really _couldn’t_. Just wait long enough and eventually they’ll think it was their idea to move in the first place. And Yuri, well, as reluctant as he was to see the couple go, it was a relief to watch the color return to Katsuki’s skin, safe in the knowledge that he’d be returning to the place he loved most.

The months passed quickly, despite the couple’s absence from the rink. Yuri kept in contact with the older skaters often, but the time difference complicated matters significantly. The opportunities to connect became less and less frequent as competition season drew near, and, then, mostly ceased altogether. Had he the time to miss them, Yuri probably would have, but, as busy as he was, the divide between them didn’t even _occur_ to him until six months later, when he’d shown up to the rink for extra practice one morning to find Victor skating lazy circles around the ice.

He’d stopped dead in his tracks at the sight, practice bag dropping to the concrete with a deep, reverberating _thud_ in the near-silence of the rink. Victor slowed to a stop at the sound, blue eyes widening as they locked gazes from across the room.

Victor’s mouth twitched, almost a grimace, before his thin lips pulled into a tight smile, skates slicing through the ice as he moved towards the barrier.

“Yurio!”

Blinking in disbelief, Yuri fought to rationalize the sight before him. The atmosphere felt stiflingly still. Despite knowing one another for so long, the time apart made them feel like strangers. If you’d asked Yuri on any other day to imagine Victor, no hazy memory could feel the same, evoke the same tight knot of nostalgia in his stomach, as seeing the hard curve of the other’s jaw, or the way the light glinted off of his hair like an ethereal layer of frost, or even smelling that harsh, aggressively expensive cologne as the other wrapped him in a tight embrace.

“I’m surprised to see you here, does Yakov know you’re practicing on your off-day?” Victor asked teasingly, but, what hit him most of all, was Victor’s weary, drawn expression, the dullness of his eyes and the sallow quality of his skin.

To put it bluntly: Victor looked like _shit_.

Yuri gaped at him for a moment before catching himself, easily slapping the cold hands from his shoulders in mock-irritation to disguise his concern. “I could say the same thing. What the fuck are you even doing in Russia?” He asks, though, it’s not really what he wants to ask. But he figures it’d be wise to err on the side of caution--this isn’t Victor’s casual impetuousness, something is _wrong_.

Victor’s expression falters for a half-second, but easily bounces back, a forced, airy chuckle breezing through his lips. “What, no ‘hello, Victor, nice to see you’? I’m _hurt_ , Yura.”

Yuri scoffs, eyes scrutinizing Victor’s face for the answers he _knows_ he won’t find. Although he’d never admit it aloud, there _are_ a few ways in which he and Victor are similar, and this clear avoidance is one of them. “You could have at least texted if you were visiting.” He scolds, arms crossed tight across his chest. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, especially not at the rink. Have you even _slept_?”

 _That_ , at the very least, causes Victor to flinch. He catches himself quickly, but the damage is done, and Yuri catalogues it for further investigation.

“Not...exactly. Jetlag--you know how it is.” He answers, eyes darting away from Yuri’s calculating look. “Anyways, since you’re here, would you mind showing me your new routines? I’ve been curious about them since you posted those teasers online.”

Although the last thing Yuri wants to do is drop the conversation, he relents, nodding. Pushing for answers is getting nowhere quick and, as loath as he is to admit it, he has missed Victor, and _could_ use some of the older skater’s critique on his new routines. Something is wrong, and he’s definitely going to find out what, but, until then, he’s going to make the most out of whatever time they have.

* * *

The list of evidence Yuri begins compiling after that first random encounter only grows with each passing day, and, before he even realizes, it’s been a week since Victor appeared back in Russia. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t come to the rink any day but that first one, and, by the end of the week, Yuri realizes that it’s because he _hasn’t told the others about his return_ , and he probably hadn’t planned to tell _anyone_ , but wasn’t prepared for Yuri to break protocol and show up on an off-day.

He _does_ , however, show up at the rink at night, when Yuri is still working himself to exhaustion. Another key point Yuri notices is that Victor _still_ looks like he’ll keel over at any second. After having known each other for so long, the older skater looking haggard was nothing new. Their sport was infamous for being both mentally and physically demanding, and any combination of poor sleep, malnourishment, or plain stress could lead to a burn out. But Yuri _knew_ Victor, and it didn’t take a genius to tell that the ‘jetlag and loneliness’ excuse was a poorly-veiled attempt at mimicking normalcy, of covering the truth with a lie he could act out better than anyone.

But, beyond the obvious, there were many red flags, though few were as positively damning as the pale strip of skin on his ring-finger, unadorned for the first time in nearly five years. That little detail, so easily disguised with gloves and tight-lipped excuses, had alerted Yuri to something he hadn’t quite picked up on before; although this brand of washed-out wasn’t the skin-deep exhaustion Victor had been claiming, it wasn’t all together new, either. In fact, Yuri had _seen_ this before, in another time but the same place.

It wasn’t just loneliness from missing Yuuri--this was loneliness from being _alone_ , totally and utterly.

At first, Yuri doesn’t believe it--doesn’t _want_ to believe it--but the facts are hard to ignore. And by the time he’s starting thinking about it, he can’t get it out of his head, not until he knows for sure. Unfortunately, every attempt he makes to visit Victor at his apartment is met with strict opposition, but Yuri is done pussy-footing around the uncomfortable silence of unsaid words. Luckily, Victor either doesn’t remember that he gave Yuri a key to check in on things from time-to-time, or he doesn’t think the blond will go so far as to drop in, judging by the horror that flashes on his face as Yuri storms in. The older skater stumbles, hurriedly trying to clear away the empty liquor bottles and take-out containers littering his coffee table, counters, and even the _floor_ , trying to retain some sense of decency, even with his stained shirt and greasy hair. It’s pathetic, seeing his childhood idol in such a state.

Or, rather, it _would_ be pathetic, if all Victor was to him was an idol.

But this isn’t about _Victor Nikiforov_ , this is about _Vitya_ , and he is so, so much _more_ than a pretty poster boy.

He’s so much more to _Yuri_ , and that’s somehow the hardest part of it all.

The anger he’d felt at being kept in the dark rushes out like a breath, replaced only by a sense of concern and a shallow hurt in the pit of his chest. “Vitya…” Yuri whispers, a desperate plea as he steps further into the room.

“Don’t.” The older skater mumbles, dropping his head to rest in his hands as he kneels on the cold wooden floor. “Just...just get out of here, Yuri. I’m not in the mood.”

Swallowing down his hesitance as best he can, Yuri forces an eye roll for the sake of his facade, stepping further into the room. “You know damn well I’ve never listened to you before, and you’re shit out of luck if you think I’m going to start _now_.” He quips, pointedly ignoring the withering look it earns him as he settles down beside the other.

“Yes, my mistake; how could I ever think you had the common decency to spare me my humiliation…” Victor grumbles, taking a hard swig from a half-empty bottle of Bacardi, groaning from the sting. “Well, have at it. You think you’re stealthy, but I _know_ you, Yuri--I can see the way you’ve just been chomping at the bit to find out what happened, so go ahead. Ask me.”

Yuri opens his mouth, but hesitates, unsure. He knows that it’s ridiculous, but up until this moment, his speculation had been merely that--speculation. If his suspicions prove to be true, could things ever return to the way that they were?

In the stark silence of Victor’s too-big, trashed apartment, Yuri can’t help but remember all the time he’d spent there as a child, still in juniors. Victor’s absence was a relatively new development, but it still felt strange, being together in such a familiar place--as if peeking into a reality where things had never changed in the first place.

A reality where _Victor_ had never changed. Where he never abandoned Yuri for something better.

But, Victor was back now, close enough to touch. And no amount of pointless wishing could ever change the rift they’d created in their once-close relationship.

So Yuri swallows down his pointless hesitance and widens it.

“Something happened with Katsudon, didn’t it?”

Victor laughs loudly, just once--more a scoff than anything, and it’s jarring in the heavy quiet. “Straight to the point as always, huh, Yuratchka?” He asks rhetorically, running a dry, weathered hand down his face. “Well, you solved the puzzle. Must feel good to be right.”

Yuri bristles, gritting his teeth. “Don’t patronize me, asshole.” He snaps, stealing a swig off the bottle cradled in Victor’s arms. “So, what? You fought with him and then ran right back to Russia with your tail between your legs, like a coward?”

“It wasn’t just a fight. God, I _wish_ we were fighting, because at least then I’d know how to solve it.” Grimacing, Victor grabs the bottle back, putting it safely out of Yuri’s reach. **“** And don’t drink that; you’re still a kid, Yura.”

“Have you finally gone brain dead, or did you forget that I’ve been old enough to drink for two years?” Yuri grunts, mouth twisting into a snarl at the parental edge to Victor’s tone.

 _That_ , at least, causes Victor to give pause, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Oh.” He breathes, looking at Yuri as if for the first time. “That’s right, you’re twenty now. I guess I missed that.”

“Yeah, you miss a lot of things when you abandon someone to move halfway across the fucking globe.” Yuri snaps, knowing fully well how spiteful it is, but unable to stop the old hurt from bubbling to the surface.

Victor flinches slightly, mouth pulling into a thin, sardonic line as he gazes hard into the shining laminate. “For all the good any of that ever did me, maybe I should have just stayed here, with you.” He muses after a long moment, voice quiet, almost wistful, as if lamenting the fact that he was the one who got to walk away--to be the one who abandons, and not the _abandoned_.

And Yuri positively _seethes._

“And let you feed off my success like the fame-hungry bloodsucker you are?” He snorts derisively “ _Please_. You did us both a favor by leaving me to Yakov and Lilia; don’t get all soft and introspective over deserting me now that your foolproof plan of living happily ever after with the pig has gone down in flames.”

He realizes that his pettiness has gone too far when Victor’s eyes flash cold, and Yuri doesn’t have time to scoot back before there’s a hand at his throat, his back slamming hard and fast and _loud_ against the floor, knocking the wind straight out of him.

“ _Don’t talk about him like that_.” Victor growls, eyes fully lucid for the first time since his return to Russia.

Yuri knows he should make excuses, say that he was joking, or (at the very least) _apologize_ . He knows all of these things, but old habits die hard, and the over-confident smirk that cuts across his face doesn’t care whether he’s fifteen or twenty, because being cold and unlovable is how he survived his childhood, and, if there’s one thing certain in his downfall, he’ll go down _swinging_.

“Funny to hear you say that when it’s so fucking obvious that _he_ dumped _you_.” Victor’s hand tightens, and Yuri laughs, even when his lungs ache from the force of it. “What? Wondering how I guessed? Face it, everyone knew Katsuki deserved better. It was only a matter of time before he realized it himself.”

Victor slams his head back once, twice, until Yuri can barely see straight, pain radiating through his head in short, staccato bursts. Stunned, he thinks to himself that it’s the first time in the fifteen or so years they’d known each other that Victor had ever intentionally hurt him, but what’s even more shocking is that, instead of fear, something about it makes him feel right. _Alive_.

“Is this your jealousy, or your crush speaking?” Victor sneers, an expression so entirely foreign on his face that Yuri practically double-takes, feeling his face suffuse with color when the words truly hit him. “While we’re speaking of the obvious, Yura, you should know that anyone who’s been around you for more than five minutes could tell you’ve been pining for me since you were still in Juniors, kitten.”

Yuri swallows hard, pinned beneath the warm, solid weight of Victor’s body, and the harsh reality of the truth, thrown back into his own face. He knows that if he fights, Victor will relent, but does he _want_ him to?

This side of Victor, this is the Victor that belongs to _him_. It isn’t the world’s smiling Victor, the soft, gleaming vision like a ghost on the ice, nor is it the loving and kind strength of Yuuri Katsuki’s husband, Victor.

No, this selfish, spiteful man, seething hot and furious with betrayal and hurt-- _that’s_ Yuri’s Victor. After all, misery loves company, and, if there’s one shared aspect between them, it’s the overwhelming loneliness of being loved only for who you’re _expected_ to be.

“‘Pining’? Don’t get ahead of yourself. I _liked_ you--past tense.” Yuri corrects, but does not fight the weight atop his body. “How does it feel, by the way? Giving someone everything you have and being told you’re not good enough?”

The grip on his neck eases, understanding, sudden and real flashing through Victor’s eyes where he sees himself reflected. The shocked, wordless parting of his lips is sympathetic and contrite, but Yuri doesn’t _need_ his pity. An apology could never make up for years of insecurity, of wondering what about him was so fundamentally _unlovable_. He needs the old Victor, _his_ Victor, before the livid tangle of visceral passion in the core of his being was extinguished by the love he trusted to last forever.

He needs to stoke the flames if he wants to burn.

“You deserve everything you got, _Vitya_ .” Yuri bites, and even he’s startled by how much he _means_ it.

Those six words are all it takes. The softening sadness is ripped away from the other’s face, swallowed by impotent, frenzied rage.

“You think you know anything about love--or even about _sex_ ?” Victor snarls, yanking Yuri’s hair back to bury his nose in the hollow of the blond’s throat. “You reek of virginity, _kotonok_ . It reminds me of how clueless you were as a foul-mouthed teen, thinking you had any claim to _Eros_.” He laughs, voice hard and uncaring as Yuri fights and flushes beneath his hands. “You were a jealous child then and you’re a jealous child, now. A couple years doesn’t change that.”

The weight leaves his body for only a second before Yuri is hefted roughly to his feet, Victor’s unrelenting grip on his hair causing him to involuntarily cry out as tears spring to his eyes. Victor pushes him onto the couch carelessly, taking advantage of his shock to single-handedly pin Yuri’s thin wrists to the armrest. Yet again, Yuri finds himself easily overwhelmed by Victor’s larger body, his own, thin legs spread around the older man’s waist.

It occurs to him all at once that this position has left him with no leverage to fight back, every awkward shuffle and cant of his hips only serving to push his pelvis into Victor’s. He’s humiliated and pissed off from the other’s teasing, but, somewhere deeper, more primal, there’s a niggling fear, tickling at his fight-or-flight response. Victor is familiar, but this anger is _not_ . He’d caught glimpses of it on occasion when he’d pushed things too far, but this deep-seated, vindictive fury is like nothing he’d ever seen before--especially not from _Victor_.

It’s more than a little bit unsettling, and he loathes himself for _still_ being so desperately aroused by this newfound side of the other.

“You know, I _did_ think about giving you what you wanted...” Victor smirks down at him, eyes narrowed as he pointedly grinds their hips together. “It was absurd, obviously. You were just an overconfident little boy, so affection starved and desperate to be treated like a grown-up, without even knowing what came with it.” The blond stills tensely beneath his hold, and Victor leans forward, pressing their bodies flush together. “I wondered how far you were willing to go to be mine. You spat and snarled and cursed my name, but you were always so eager, so ready to be what I wanted.” He pauses again, and, in the close proximity, Yuri suddenly becomes _very_ aware of Victor’s full erection pressed against his own, half-hard cock, barely separated by the thin layers of their clothes. Catching the soft sound of surprise the blond can’t quite stifle, Victor grins wider, almost sadistically, as he slides his free hand under Yuri’s shirt, cold fingertips ghosting against his nipples. “Would you have done anything for me, _shylukha_ ? Let me dress and pose and _fuck_ you until I grew bored of my toy?”

“ _Yes_ .” Yuri gasps, breathless, exultant. Rationally, he isn’t sure if he means it. The idea of himself as a fifteen-year old is already such a distant and abstract concept. But he remembers, vividly, his desperation for something, _anything_ , if Victor would just glance in his direction.

Maybe it’s pathetic. Immoral. Victor doesn’t belong to him, and he never will--not really. But right now, it’s _his_ body pinned under Victor’s, _his_ back against the over-priced soft suede of Victor’s couch, and, for once, the only thing reflected in Victor’s gaze is himself, staring back. It would be so, so easy to convince himself that he’d been pressured, that he had no choice, but the tentative uncertainty in Victor’s eyes says it all. He’s waiting for Yuri’s consent, treading the edge  without _truly_ crossing it, because rejection is the only thing left to fear for the man who has already lost it all.

They’ve passed the point of no return, and that’s what he tells himself as he gives in.

When Yuri surges forward to falteringly crash their lips together, it’s an agreement, and Victor wastes no time in making good on the terms. The grip on Yuri’s wrists tighten to the point where he feels his bones creaking under the skin, crying out into Victor’s mouth as the older skater takes the lead, his experience easily overpowering Yuri’s wild enthusiasm.

When they separate to breathe, Victor hauls him up by the hips, nimble fingers deftly tugging Yuri’s leggings down over the curve of his ass. Yuri cries out in breathless surprise, shivering as his exposed upper thighs meet the pilling cotton of the older skater’s sweatpants. The change in position leaves him vulnerably spread across Victor’s lap, his flushed cock and ass on full display. His hands instinctively pull with the need to cover himself, but Victor’s grip on his wrists is unwavering, eyes glinting voraciously as he takes in the Yuri’s form.

 _It’s just Victor_ . Yuri reminds himself, closing his eyes tight and forcing down the cold rush of panic in his chest. They’ve seen one another naked in the locker rooms and the bath at Yutopia more times than he cares to remember, so it’s not like the idea of Victor seeing him like this is anything _new_ , but the context makes it foreign and uncharted. This isn’t just seeing, but _looking_ , and Yuri is suddenly very aware of the fact that this is the first time he’s ever been bared like this, for _appraisal_ , and that alone is enough to have him squirming, fighting desperately against the solid weight of Victor’s body against his own.

The older skater narrows his eyes, grip tightening around Yuri’s wrists in warning until the boy gasps in pain, body falling still and quiet. “Easy,” He breathes, running his free hand across the sharp curve of the other’s jaw, frowning as he traces the racing pulse point. “I knew it, you’re not ready for this.”

Victor sighs, heavy and disappointed, and Yuri’s stomach bottoms out completely. “I am ready!” He argues, forcing a desperate, false-certainty into his voice even though he _isn’t_ , not at all. But he’s waited five long years for just one chance, and he _can’t_ afford to _lose_ this. “I want you, Victor. Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

_I’ll make myself ready. I’ve done it before._

His protests are met only with a still silence, Victor’s expression tight and contemplative, and Yuri can only pray that there is some remaining vestige of the rose-tinted Victor that has not been lost to heartbreak, and will believe his empty assurances at face value. He doesn’t know what he wants to happen, but he has considered the scope of what _can_ , and he’s tired of living with the ‘what-if’s.

“ _Please_.” Yuri adds, more or less against his own volition.

Victor hesitates for a moment more, then leans close, hides his face in Yuri’s neck, breath hot against long golden hair. “Remember that you _asked_ for this, Yuri. Prove to me you aren’t a child.”

Yuri nods once, a promise, and Victor continues.

It’s everything at once, like a wave crashing to shore. Cold hands pulling at his hair, his hips, his ass, poking and prodding, until long, thin fingers close around his softening erection, roughly pumping him back to full hardness.

There is no shadow of gentleness or care in the way Victor touches Yuri--not that he had entertained the delusion of them being lovers in any capacity. Still, the rapacious, insistent way he manhandles Yuri to fit his own needs is such a far cry from the hopeless romantic Prince Victor that the tabloids had documented for the past five years. When his calloused fingers shove past the tight, unprepared muscle of Yuri’s entrance, there is no remaining trace of the man who beamed at the altar, embracing his husband as if holding the world in the curve of his arm. Under Victor’s loving hands, Yuuri was porcelain and pearl, ethereal and glimmering like the first snow of December. But Yuri is not one for being loved, and he becomes small and undefinable under the unsympathetic hands of a man, bereft.

Every touch is brimstone and scorched earth, and painful in more ways than Yuri cares to put a name to. It hurts so much that his vision swims in and out of blackness, but he does not allow himself to cry out in pain, even as Victor forces two, three, _four_ fingers into him with nothing but his own saliva to soothe the sting.

 _I asked for this_. Yuri tells himself over and over, shapes the words out in his mind’s eye and envisions them burning, like a brand against the self-preserving part of his mind that’s crying out that _it_ _hurts, it hurts; something is wrong_. He’s stronger than this, and he’s lived through far worse pain than getting what he wanted.

Or, at least that’s what he promises himself, until he feels the fingers retreat, and the blunt, rounded tip of Victor’s cock press against his sore entrance.

 _“_ No,” he exhales shakily, tears that had been building since the beginning burning at the edges of his eyes. _“_ No-- _No_ \--”

Gentle fingers card through his hair, and Yuri leans into the touch, nerves a frayed livewire seconds from surging and desperate for comfort of any kind.

“See? You aren’t ready.” Victor sighs, and Yuri sobs through gritted teeth, hot tears finally overflowing across the bridge of his nose and into his hair. It’s _failure_ , pure and simple. Victor and Yuuri will end up back together because that’s how things are meant to be, but Yuri had one chance to put a decade-old crush to rest, and he squandered it because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut and swallow down a little pain.

The grounding hand pinning his wrists to the armrest vanishes, and even with his eyes clenched tight, he knows that Victor is tucking his cock back into his sweats, and there is no thought that must be put into Yuri’s decision. Surging forward, he clings to Victor’s arm, a drowning man, scrabbling blindly towards his last chance at salvation. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ .” Yuri rasps, licking the salt from his own trembling lips, focusing on Victor’s form where it swims and distorts through the filmy layer of tears that blind him. “I’m ready, please, _please_ .” _Let me be enough. Just this once._

Luckily, Victor doesn’t take much convincing, and Yuri forces himself into silence as the older skater moves back into position above him, only the gentle push of hair from his eyes to tell him that all was forgiven. “Fine, Yura, but this is the last time.” He says quietly, and Yuri fights the instinctual pull of fear that floods his body as Victor guides his erection back into position at his entrance. “You’ve made your decision and I’m not stopping again.”

And, with a forceful cant of his hips, he runs Yuri through.

It hurts so much worse than he could’ve imagined. Having never had any experience or sexual education, nothing could have prepared him for the blinding pain of being entered without proper preparation. Victor’s merciless thrusts were like a hot knife to the stomach, dragging and burning its way through every cell in his body. Yuri’s fingers clenched and clawed fruitlessly at his own palms, still held against the armrest, his legs shaking and practically immobile around the curve of Victor’s hips. Through the sharpening horror of his position, he could only picture himself as a pinned insect on a corkboard, a fragile thing being torn by clumsy, uncaring fingers. And, above him, Victor seemed so much larger and more imposing than usual, sweating and grunting, using Yuri’s body as if it was an object--a _thing_ \--and he’s scared, scared because this _isn’t_ Victor and he _isn’t_ ready and it hurts it hurts it _hurts_.

 _But I asked for this_ . He reminds himself, even as his body shudders and convulses, desperate with the need to escape. _I asked for this_. He tells himself again, until it sounds like the truth.

It doesn’t get easier, not when the blood runs between his legs and lubricates Victor’s thrusting. And Victor does not relent, even when Yuri’s wobbling cries devolve into little more than hushed pleading. He doesn’t slow, and, eventually, Yuri goes almost delirious from the pain, and stops trying to force the impossible.

Instead, he thinks of anything he can to dull the pain. When he closes his eyes, he forces himself to remember Moscow, to map the dirty old streets out in the back of his mind. He hasn’t been back after his grandfather’s funeral in the cold summer after his eighteenth birthday, but no amount of forgetting could ever take from him the heavy, nostalgic smell of baked meat and his grandfather’s favorite brand of cigars. He thinks of Hasetsu, of the lull of waves against the shore that carries the town into a gentle sleep, like a child being rocked to bed. He thinks of Otabek, Yakov, Lilia, and he thinks, especially, of Yuuri. Would Yuuri ever know about this? Would he know how Yuri had snuck into their carefully crafted world and slept with his precious Vitya the moment he’d turned his back?

Would he come to hate Yuri in that moment as much as Yuri hated _himself_?

Either way, he doesn’t think he could take knowing.

When the end of it all comes, it is only a small mercy. Victor comes deep inside of him with a choked moan, before collapsing heavily on top of Yuri, a lead weight tethering him to an inescapable hell he feels simultaneously imprisoned in and miles away from. Sobering doesn’t even begin to describe how it feels coming down from his daydreams, to be suddenly, achingly aware that it is _Victor’s_ hot breath against his neck, _Victor’s_ heavy, sweat-slicked body collapsed on top of his, and _Victor’s_ cum, trickling down the cleft of his ass.

 _Victor_ , he reminds himself. Victor Nikiforov, who had been a constant in his life for so, so long. A comforting presence, that shifted fluidly to match their dynamic. Victor, Yuuri’s husband. Victor, his friend, his childhood crush, an idol, a rival, a proxy-guardian.

And, then, the terrifying reality. How could they ever go back from that crystallized moment? Dripping with Victor’s seed and his blood on his (friend’s?) softening cock from the rough intrusion.

The tears come unbidden, and, dwarfed under the weight of their situation, both metaphorical and physical, Yuri feels _small_. He stirs, trembles, but Victor does not move, snoring softly against his pulse-point.

And when the other whispers a familiar name, Yuri shuts his eyes tight, and doesn’t delude himself into thinking that it is his own.

 _I wanted this._ He repeats to himself again and again, the way his grandfather used to say his Hail Mary's in church, and wonders how many more times it will take until he's earned absolution. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But some bones need to be broken before they can heal. Some houses need to be burnt to ash to create a more durable home on an old foundation.
> 
> Victor tries to picture a life here, with Yuri. He imagines picking him up from practice and walking back together in the cold, making dinner at the stove while Yuri wraps his blistered feet on the couch. Lying together at night with their legs entangled under the thick duvet, Yuri’s smaller, warmer body pressed tight against his own. Emerald eyes and pale hair instead of amber and obsidian, but, still, a heartbeat under his hand. A hand to hold.
> 
> And it’s not the same, but it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a fuken sip, babes ;*

The love of his life ends, ironically, in the same way that it began: with a few words, spoken sincerely.

“ _I’m sorry, Victor_.”

The setting sun glinted off of his dark hair, glowing like amber against the vivid orange and gold of the horizon.

He was, as always, _breathtaking_ , and Victor swallowed hard against the panic of losing him.

“ _No, please,_ ” He whispered, a desperate hand clasping around his husband’s own, bringing it to his trembling lips. “ _I love you so much. We--we’ll get through it, I know we will. Please,_ please _don’t give up yet._ ”

“ _Vitya.”_ Yuuri had said quietly, voice almost drowned out by the gentle susurrus of the evening tide coming in. He turned his head and finally met Victor’s gaze, the exhaustion and resignation hanging over his dull skin like a heavy shroud, a shadow. “ _I love you, and I will always love you, but I just don’t think I can do this anymore._ ”

 _I can’t do this anymore_.

That was all it took for the best thing he’d ever known to slip from his fingers.

In less than a week, Yuuri had worked everything out. An “uncontested divorce”, he called it. No opposing divorce lawyers, no court fees, and no press to pry their way into the graveyard of their lost love. Yuuri offered Victor the best of their things and, of course, the house they had bought together to keep as his own. After all, Yuuri had somewhere else to belong in Japan. He had a family and friends that would love and support him no matter what he chose, and _that_ was the realization that had Victor packing his bag in the middle of the night and taking the first available flight to Russia--no expenses spared.

Yuuri might have been able to pick up his life and continue after the breakup, but Victor was not capable of doing the same. His friends, family, and life in Japan were all borrowed things, lent to him through his connection to Yuuri. Without his love by his side, Hasetsu was just another foreign town on another foreign shore, and their home was just an empty house to be filled with ghosts of the past, and the disappointment of dreams, laid prematurely to rest. The house was not made a home by the foundation or the wood, not the furniture or the paint, it was _Yuuri_ , whose absence leaves the space feeling vast and sepulchral. To return there every night to the silence of an empty bed and grieve the loss of a love he’d taken for granted was far more than Victor could ever find the strength to handle, so he buries the worst of it in the pit of his chest, and leaves the rest behind.

One of the only luxuries is that they haven’t gone public with the divorce yet, so he has at least until the paperwork processes to lay low and nurse the fresh wounds in his old apartment. It’s oppressively quiet there, too, but it’s still easier. He lived there alone before Yuuri, and taking up bad habits to fill the void is as instinctual as learning to breathe. When he isn’t drinking, he does what he needs to survive, but only that. His phone died somewhere in the days after Yuuri moved back in with his parents, and he hadn’t bothered charging it since. There was only one person in the world he wanted to hear from, and the possibility of _that_ happening was about as minuscule as the chance of him seeing the end of the year alive and unchanged.

The routine of self-destruction is easy to settle into, easy to plan for, but the mistake comes in getting _too_ comfortable. The fleeting moments of sobriety he finds in the drawn-out artificial darkness of the apartment leave him antsy, unsettled by the familiarity of his surroundings and the stark reminder they serve of who he used to be--who he can’t, for the life of him, remember how to become _now_.

So, he goes back to his roots.

The rink never changes, not even the locks, and Victor thanks god that he kept the key he’d pilfered from Yakov as a teenager. It’s been far too long since he’s set foot on the ice, but it still feels like home when his blades hit the crystalline surface. He’s not confident enough in his ankles anymore to attempt a jump, but there’s something rejuvenating about just being there, in the cold and quiet.

Unfortunately, the quiet doesn’t last long at all.

 _Thud_.

It all slows down from there, when he realizes what--no-- _who_ he’s looking at. It’s strange to see Yuri in person after such a long time of looking at him through the lens of computer screens or photos. His lithe body appears the same in life as it does compressed to a two-dimensional form, but the atmosphere around him is something that can only be felt in person. It’s sharp and unpredictable, like the brittle, resilient strength of hawthorn branches reaching toward the sky, cutting it to ribbons--how they bend with the wind, but do not break.

And it’s humiliating to be seen like _this_ by someone so enduring, so the least he can do is soften the blow through practiced dishonesty. Victor’s one saving grace is that Yuri is just as emotionally stunted as himself, and, though suspicious, accepts his excuses with little coercion, and allows himself to be drawn away from the truth, piece by piece.

The few weeks since his return to Russia have been isolating and difficult, but spending time with Yuri changes things in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It’s comforting, being with Yuri; it helps him forget, just for a little while. He lets Yuri become part of the new routine, but maintains a careful distance between the two. The truth coming to light is a harsh inevitability--a matter of _when_ rather than _if--_ and it’s one he’ll do anything to postpone having to face.

Though, in the meantime, it’s nice to have someone around--someone who needs _him_ , too. No one will ever fill the void that Yuuri left, but Yuri is still familiar, still a close-fit.

But, again, he lets himself get too comfortable in the routine, and Yuri has never been an easy to predict variable.

He storms into Victor’s apartment like a north wind, furious and glistening gold, even in the overbearing dark. The anger, though, is fine; he’s adept at dealing with Yuri’s anger after so many years, and knows that it’s something easily placated with empty words and reassurances.

But when the anger melts away into something like _pity_ , it forces Victor over a precipice he didn’t realize he was skirting until he’d fallen over the edge.

It’s all talk, and he doesn’t mean for things to escalate as much as they do. He doesn’t _want_ to hurt Yuri, but he does anyway. He does, and apart from the surprise at himself for acting so cruelly, he’s even _more_ shocked when Yuri doesn’t immediately leave him. It’s terrifying, how much of a comfort that little consistency is.

Because despite it all, Yuri is still there, and wants something Victor can give, and he finds himself stuck between the idea of doing something, _anything_ constructive, and breaking down the only thing he has left in the world with his own two hands. The rational part of him knows that Yuri deserves better, so much _better_ than what he asks for. But, still, the selfish part of him _needs_ Yuri to stay, no matter what he does.

 _Run. Run from me_ . Victor urges silently, stomach turning at the implication of his own, perverse words and actions. But, instead of doing what he _knows_ is right, he finds himself wanting to push it even further. To find the breaking point he pushed Yuuri to without even realizing.

He gives Yuri a way out. It’s not a test of his conviction--he _knows_ that Yuri is lying. He’s not ready. He’s still a _kid_. It’s his first time and it shouldn’t be like this, Victor knows that much.

\--But Yuri _doesn’t_. Beneath it all, he’s still the same lonely child with a propensity to trust, and he doesn’t know any better than to take what is given to him. And Victor knows that, too, but it isn’t enough to convince him not to continue, especially when the dark, dependant part of him whispers that he risks losing Yuri either way.

 _He’ll resent you for treating him like a child_ , he reasons, growing cold to the pit of his stomach. _He’s always forcing himself to be mature. If you call it off now, he’ll leave you. He’ll leave you, and you’ll have_ nothing.

It’s selfish and it’s wrong, but he needs Yuri to need him back, and if this is the only way, then it will be enough because it _has_ to be. When it’s done, he’ll make it all better. He’ll learn to adapt again, become the version of himself Yuri always needed, and they’ll be okay--just the two of them this time, the way it _could_ have been.

There are marked, unmistakable discrepancies to kissing someone other than his husband for the first time in five years. With Yuuri, it was always smooth and indulgent, red wine and chocolate cherries; like slowing down the world with a single caress. But Yuri is pure, youthful passion in his inexperience--the invincibility of walking through fire, just to let something burn. It isn’t bad, but it’s _different_ , and makes him suddenly, violently aware of the twelve years that separate them, so he quickly works to overtake the action with himself, until he can barely recognize the dissimilarity of Yuri’s taste in his mouth.

Lingering on an action means being present in the situation, and it isn’t something he can confidently do without breaking. He knows that rushing through it all is an injustice to Yuri’s first time, but he’ll lose his nerve if he lets his mind wander from each present distraction. He manhandles Yuri like a doll, tugging at his clothes across his body fully removing them, strips of pale skin shining through like the waning moon between dark clouds. Yuri is still beautiful, untouched marble taking shape, and Victor touches his skin as little as possible, scared to defile it with intention alone.

 _I’m sorry, Yuri_ . Victor swallows, gathering the blond’s narrow wrists in a single hand. Having to preemptively hold Yuri down makes him sick to his stomach, but he _has_ to. Beyond the cracking facade of confidence, there are palpable traces of fear rushing to Yuri’s face, and he doesn’t think the shell of his broken heart could take it if he tried to fight him off for real.

_I’ll make it up to you. I promise._

When Yuri starts to squirm, scared and fighting for escape, it takes everything he has to keep from letting his ex-rinkmate go. Yuri’s pulse hammers like the wings of a hummingbird under his hand, terrified and helpless, and he worries. He wants to comfort Yuri, to assuage the inevitable trauma as much as he possibly can, but the words don’t find him, because he knows, deep down, that there is only one way that this can go. The scales have tipped too far, and, with all that’s happened, there is no positive outcome in stopping mid-way.  

The pretense of disappointment he puts on hurts, deep into his chest. There is nothing on earth that scares Yuri so acutely, so viscerally, as _failure and abandonment_ , and Victor exploits those fears to his full advantage.

It is not a victory when Yuri bends to his manipulation, and Victor falters severely in the face of the exact reaction he’d been expecting. To see Yuri’s fear and desperation--fear and desperation _he’d_ caused--absolutely breaks his heart. Yuri deserves so much, but so rarely receives anything but hurt from the people meant to care for him, and Victor is only another untrustworthy adult in the long line of his abusers.

 _I can’t do this to him--I can’t hurt him like this._ He panics, but the damage is done, and the seed of insecurity he’d planted in Yuri mutates with a lethal malignancy every second Victor hesitates to continue. To stop now would imply that Yuri had ruined it, that Victor was disappointed in him for being rightfully _scared_ , and there would be no turning back from that.

 _I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry that it has to be this way_. Victor swallows his guilt back as much as he possibly can, hides his face so Yuri can’t see the way his eyes grow wet, and forces himself to continue.

The way he touches Yuri is almost as cruel as the responsibility he’d forced upon him, and he tries not to let the blond’s physiological ability to grow aroused by his assault desensitize him to the reality of what’s _really_ happening. And, as if to prove the point to himself, Victor forces his pointer finger into Yuri’s entrance, only realizing with dawning horror a half-second later that he’d done it _dry_.

In the months leading up to the divorce, he and Yuuri had been less and less intimate, and, even on the odd days that they were, Yuuri _always_ prepared himself, saying that it was too embarrassing to have someone else do so. The thought of needing lubrication except for himself hadn’t even crossed his mind until he was already up to his second-knuckle in Yuri’s too-tight body, and, by then, it was already too late to make it as painless as possible.

In an act of belated consideration, he coats his own fingers in saliva and tries again, wincing as Yuri shivers in pain beneath his violent touches, eyes clenched tight as if he can’t bear to see what’s become of them.

And, as Victor forces his fingers in one-by-one, he almost resents Yuri’s ability to withstand such a horrible situation.

The amount of preparation he can do is extremely limited as is, but made even less substantial by his own rush to get it _over with_. By the time he’s aligned his cock with Yuri’s abused entrance, it’s a crushing sort of deliverance to hear the blond begging for him to put an end to it all.

He only wishes that stopping were an option, so late into the game.

He brushes Yuri’s hair back from his face, unable to keep the strained relief from flooding his voice as he sighs, feigning frustration. Just like the first time, he opens the wound, prods at the delicate insecurity there, and tries not to lose his courage as Yuri shakes and sobs, so scared to of what’s to come, but more frightened, still, of what it will mean for him if he _isn’t_ _good enough_.

_But some bones need to be broken before they can heal. Some houses need to be burnt to ash to create a more durable home on an old foundation._

Victor tries to picture a life here, with Yuri. He imagines picking him up from practice and walking back together in the cold, making dinner at the stove while Yuri wraps his blistered feet on the couch. Lying together at night with their legs entangled under the thick duvet, Yuri’s smaller, warmer body pressed tight against his own. Emerald eyes and pale hair instead of amber and obsidian, but, still, a heartbeat under his hand. A hand to _hold_.

And it’s not the same, but it’s _something_.

So he let’s Yuri pull him back, like pouring a path of kerosene across old wooden floors. Thrusts his hips forward, like lighting a match.

He doesn’t need to imagine how much the dry penetration hurts--Yuri’s wide-eyed, choking cries are more than enough to tell him how excruciating it is. Every rational part left in him that hasn’t been completely lost to madness is screaming, _screaming_ at him to _stop_ , that the hurt has already gone too far, too deep to heal. But he doesn’t--he _can’t_ \--not even when the sharp, sickly scent of copper hits his nose, and he looks down to see splotches of crimson painting the point of their connection. Not when Yuri is mindlessly pleading with him, slurring and weeping that _it hurts, Vitya, please stop, please._

He doesn’t want to hurt Yuri, he _never_ did, but he _has to_. And he pushes forward, even as Yuri goes silent and limp beneath him, even as the dark walls around them fall away into a familiar light blue, a different time, a different place, and a different person underneath him--different circumstances.

When he comes, it is to the delusion of softer, rounder features. Amber instead of emerald.

A love, meant to last forever.

And, somewhere between the distant, pained whimpering beneath him, Victor pulls himself free and drifts off, dreaming of an evening on the shore, where nothing falls apart.

He thinks of Yuuri.

And, he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant to have this up yesterday, however, in reference to a few irate comments i've received from a certain NormalPerson, i've decided to make one thing abundantly clear:
> 
> the purpose of this story is not to be arousing. it is not pointlessly aged-up sexual assault porn for the sake of legality. this story is a tragedy, through and through, exploring the physical, psychological, and mental ramifications in cases of sexual assault--something i, myself, have experienced first hand from early childhood until now. 
> 
> i didn't want to talk about my own experiences, because i am still not comfortable delving into them without the detachment of separating myself from the actuality of what i went through and how it affects me. writing this is a catharsis, not a kink. in that sense, i implore you not to carelessly throw around words like "pedophilic" or even "porn", because i feel as though that detracts from the message i'm trying to send by equating this to a rape fetish. if you want more of my input on this, i've explained most of it in the comments already, but that's the gist of it. thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> So, first off, I'd like to talk about Coercion. Coercion is one of the most common forms of manipulation sexual predators use on their victims. because coercion is a type of emotional manipulation, it is often used to gain the victim's 'consent' (which is, as you can understand, worthless) so that, when the victim inevitably comes forward or confronts the aggressor about what happened, they can cite the victim's 'consent' to silence their argument and, often, avoid being reported. 
> 
> however, in this case, the coercive tactics used by victor are not so black-and-white, because he isn't truly aware that what he's saying is wrong. he knows that he is hurting Yuri, but has deluded himself into thinking that it's okay, since he did ascertain consent. neither of them really wants to have sex. Victor is suffering from the loss of his first and only, and yuri is the best distraction he has. In the moment, they convince themselves that they want it--that it's right--but the mental fallout will be indescribable for both.
> 
> i'm considering writing a second chapter to outline what was going through Victor's head during the encounter, so I hope i'll have enough time to do so. 
> 
> thanks for reading! sorry that it's uhhh bad?


End file.
